


It Was Real (It's Real)

by iknowhowyoukiss



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, crossover AU, cs au week 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 03:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7492710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iknowhowyoukiss/pseuds/iknowhowyoukiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing they tell Emma Swan when she takes the job at the State Penitentiary's infirmary, is to never fall in love with an inmate. It’s not that hard of a rule to adhere to, or so she thinks, until Killian Jones breezes into her life like the perfect storm -- covered in tattoos, dashing to no end, brilliant of mind, incessantly mysterious -- and promptly turns her world on end. (Prison Break AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was Real (It's Real)

**Author's Note:**

> This labor of love began back in October of last year in honor of scribblecat27's birthday. Sez, thanks are in order to you and the girls for convincing me to watch the show and introducing me to Michael and Sarah, whom I love with my whole heart forever and always. Thank you also for blessing my life with your friendship (ayoooo, 3AM Skype sessions!) and gorgeous artwork. You are a beautiful soul and I cannot wait to see you again! Xx

He’s seated on the exam table when she walks in, just there on the periphery of her vision while she focuses her attention his chart -- a leanly muscled figure dressed in the typical two-toned blue uniforms assigned to the prison inmates.

 _Name: Jones, Killian._  
_Age: 31._  
_Gender: Male._  
_POB: England._  
_Hair: Dark brown._  
_Eyes: Blue._  
_Height: 5’11.  
__Chronic Conditions: Type 1 Diabetes._

It’s an easy enough appointment, just a quick shot to his arm. The visit altogether shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, after which he can return to his cell and she can squeeze in a few more patients before breaking for lunch.

She eases down into the black rolling chair situated between the counter and him, setting the folder off to the side before preparing to administer his insulin dosage. “Sleeve up, please,” she instructs, all business, glancing up briefly to offer him a polite smile.

He says nothing in reply to acknowledge he’s heard the request, which is fine by her, not everyone is a talker. She knows that better than anyone.

When she turns towards him though, needle and antiseptic in gloved hands, she finds that he’s already got the long sleeve of his shirt pushed up past his bicep, smiling back at her with an expectant expression. She blinks for a second when she gets a look at his face -- _really_ looks at it -- because he’s a handsome guy and she imagines she’d be hard-pressed to find any woman who didn’t think so. But it’s merely a passing thought, as she’s seen her fair share of pretty boys, especially in this testosterone-laden environment, and one more is nothing special.

She reaches out towards him, cotton ball caught between her fingers, and pauses abruptly when something else captures her attention: his exposed arm and how completely covered in ink it is.

The tattoos alone don’t surprise her, she’s been working at the prison long enough to have seen all manners of artwork etched onto her patients’ skin, but the fact that the ink looks fresh -- like he’s just gotten it done in recent weeks -- makes her brows pinch together. Some areas appear to have been done just days before, as indicated by the still-pink, slightly swollen skin around the edges of the dark lines and indiscernible patterns.

She suspects that it has to be a full sleeve, the tattoos disappearing beyond his elbow and up into the end of his rucked up shirt. _Two_ sleeves, in fact, if the intricate markings on his other wrist that peek out from beneath fabric are anything to go by.

Those are fresh too.

It’s strange, the nagging sensation that settles between her shoulder blades, but she brushes it off, working the alcohol into his skin to clean a small area on his upper arm. His gaze lingers on her, intense and observant, and while the reaction to glance up is completely reflexive, it is no less annoying. Particularly when he smiles again and sees that he’s succeeded in garnering her attention.

His eyes are blue, the file on her counter says as much. But what it unfortunately fails to mention is _how_ blue. It’s rather impressive, really, like two little jewels stolen from the very depths of the ocean. But perhaps what’s most disarming, is that there’s nothing menacing in his stare, or lecherous even -- both of which she’s far too familiar with in this area of work she’s chosen for herself. What she sees instead is very unexpected.

Kindness.

Emma clears her throat, schooling her features into a mask of cordial indifference as she returns to task.

“Nice tattoo,” he says quietly, his eyes flickering to the small flower on her wrist, dark ink faintly visible beneath the thin latex of her gloves.

The words are accompanied with a gentle curving of lips that makes the boyish dimples flanking his mouth wink to life. She tries not to scowl at the fact that he’d noticed it. Besides, it’s hardly nice, and certainly nothing as detailed or extravagant as his own, merely a simple five-petal design she’d gotten when she was old enough -- a rash, whimsical decision for a rebellious girl just turned 18.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she replies, pinching his skin together before sticking the needle in him. “As you seem to be a bit of an expert.”

He chuckles at her, the sound deep and rumbling in the back of his throat. “I’m Killian by the way.”

“Jones,” she finishes for him, smiling again as she withdraws the syringe and applies pressure to the injection site. “I know, I read your report. Hold that.”

She ignores the brush of his fingers against hers when he takes the gauze in hand, ignores the weird jolt that zips through her arm at the contact. (Ignores his charmingly lilting accent.) She rolls the chair back an inch or two towards the counter to retrieve his file so she can jot down some notes.

“And you are?” he asks after a beat.

She sighs quietly to herself but manages to resist rolling her eyes. She knows that tone, and while lecherous he may not be, a flirt he most certainly is. “‘Dr. Swan’ will do.”

“‘Swan?’ Hmm,” he nods contemplatively, tongue poking against his cheek.

Their gazes meet once more, and she starts to wonder if that smirk on his face is inherent or simply practiced. “Yeah, you know, like the bird?”

Said smirk blooms into a grin, and his expression is infinitely amused. “Yes, I am aware. Graceful. Elegant. Beautiful creatures, really. I find the name quite suits you.”

“You’re forgetting fiercely tempered,” she remarks, the arch of her brow a warning if there ever was one. She is treated to another of his persistent looks.

“So, how exactly does this arrangement work?” he wonders, the curve of his mouth stubbornly refusing to relax. “I receive a few weeks’ supply?”

Her laugh is wry and the only response she gives him. He knows there are no hypos allowed on the floor.

“You’ll find that I’m the furthest thing from a junkie, love. Trust me.”

“Let me give you some sage advice, Jones.” She does her best to bite back on her exasperation. “‘ _Trust me_ ,’ means absolutely nothing inside these walls.”

“What about to you?”

That gives her pause for a moment, then she looks him firmly in the eyes. “The only way you’re getting these insulin shots, is if I’m administering them.”

He hardly seems displeased. “I suppose we’ll be seeing a lot of each other then.”

Emma says nothing more as she stands, leaving him with a forced parting smile as she grabs his folder. She feels his eyes on her back the whole way out.

\----------

The next day, she finds him standing by the window when she enters the room, looking out between the bars at the view of the courtyard, watchtower, and electric fence bordering the grounds of the prison. He turns as she shuffles in, and she notes that there’s something darker in his gaze that hadn’t been there the previous morning. Something that’s made him look...broody.

“Hi,” she greets.

“Hello.”

“Everything okay?” she wonders, sitting herself down in her chair.

“Everything’s fine.”

“You sure? You look like you have something on your mind.”

He shrugs nonchalantly, though his blue eyes appear rather stormy. “I’m curious, I suppose, why the granddaughter of Governor Mills is working in a prison. As a doctor, no less.”

“Step-granddaughter,” she corrects, irritation licking up her spine both at his knowledge of her familial ties and the fact that he was so quick to lump her in with the likes of her ‘grandparent.’

“Either way, must make for an interesting Thanksgiving.”

“We’re not close.” She snaps on her gloves with a little more force than necessary.

She knows the kind of reputation Governor Regina ‘Frontier Justice’ Mills has -- ruthless, temperamental, _mean_. There’s a reason Emma used to call her the ‘Evil Queen’ when she was younger. Now, she’s built her political career off her controversial stance on her dissatisfaction with the law and supporting harsher punishments for crime all across the board.

Emma has never seen things as black and white as her. Besides, she’s always believed in being part of the solution, not the problem. She tells Killian as much, motioning him over so she can give him his shot.

He grunts noncommittally. “Yes, well, I suppose when you want to change things, you’ve got to go out there and change them yourself.”

Her head shoots up at that, eyes locking on his and going wide with surprise.

“What?” he wonders in turn, the corners of his mouth tugging up the longer she stares at him.

“Nothing, that was just...that was my senior quote.” She shakes her head and tears her gaze away.

“What was?”

“‘Be the change you want to see in the world.’”

“That was you? Huh. Well, perhaps you’ll need to sue Gandhi for plagiarism then.”

“Ha-ha, you’re so funny.” His grin -- both charming and annoying in one fell swoop -- makes her roll her eyes. There is no heat in the gesture, though, and he even manages to pull a real smile from her too. She stands to leave as soon as she’s finished. “Alright, all set. Goodbye, Killian.”

“Until tomorrow?”

“Until tomorrow.”

“I shall look forward to it all night.”

She gives him a knowing look, though her amused little smile stays in place as she walks out.

\----------

It’s always been a tough balance for her, walking that line between appropriate bedside manner and keeping a safe, emotional distance from the prisoners. Being compassionate despite who they are and what they’ve done and the choices they’ve made. They’re still people after all, and she’d sworn an oath as a doctor.

But the first thing they tell you when you take the job is to never fall in love with an inmate.

And she’s not falling in love with him, _god no_. She’s not even interested in him, especially not in that way. She’s merely doing some research. She likes to get to know her patients. At least, that’s what she tells herself as she settles in with his file at her desk in the infirmary late into the night, wondering what a _brilliant_ structural engineer is doing in a level-one maximum security prison.

\----------

“You went to Loyola,” she tells him during his next visit, after his shot, as he’s pulling the sleeve of his shirt down.

His grin is smug, pleased even, and she has a hard time imagining him as anything but a ladies’ man on campus during his time in college. “ _Dr. Swan_ ,” he replies. It’s clearly teasing, but teasing or no, the way he says her name is borderline sinful. “I’m flattered you’ve gone out of your way to check up on me.”

“Don’t be. I just like to get to know my patients,” she retorts, though it serves as an explanation as much as a reminder for herself.

“Ah,” he nods, glancing down at his feet and scratching behind his ear.

“I went to Northwestern, graduated two years after you did.” The words are out before she can stop them, and she mentally kicks herself in the ass. It’s not wise to offer up personal information. She’s not the patient, _he_ is.

When he lifts his eyes to hers again, they sparkle with just a bit of mirth. “Well, perhaps we’ve met before then. Two ships passing in the night. You know, at a bar somewhere. Or a sorority party, perhaps. You seem the type.”

Her? A sorority girl? Pfft. Hardly.

Her eyes narrow slightly and she refuses to answer one way or another, distracting herself with the notes she always writes in his file at the end of every session. “Wouldn't you like to know.”

“Perhaps I would.”

The softness of his words draws her gaze to his so their eyes hold for a long moment. There’s something surprisingly sincere in the way he says it, the joking tone gone from his voice, and it’s alarming how...anxious that suddenly makes her feel. How vulnerable, exposed. Warning bells abruptly go off in her head then, and she takes a mental step back from the earnestness in his too-blue eyes, forcing herself to concentrate on the paper in front of her and the pen in her hand and the scribbling of letters to form words.

She snorts at the sentiment. “Look, not my style, Jones. Besides, I would have remembered.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, love.”

“It’s not one,” comes her snarky reply, just a little on the defensive side.

Perhaps it’s her words that make him grin back, or the sharpness of their delivery, either way, he chuckles to himself with a shake of his head as he inches off the table and onto his feet so he can leave. She senses him pause at the door and it makes her swallow thickly.

“Dr. Swan?”

She doesn’t answer but she glances up at him over her shoulder.

“I would have remembered too, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn't.”

He merely smiles at her again -- deliberately, _infuriatingly_ \-- his hands sliding into the pockets of his pants as he nods. “See you tomorrow.”

She has no response to that either, ignoring the little flutter in her stomach that reminds her that she’s human and inmate or not, he’s still attractive. _Ridiculously_ attractive.

\----------

“I want to run some tests on your next visit.”

Her voice is casual. The way his head turns to her is not.

“For?”

“Killian,” she says, leaning back against the counter and crossing her arms over her chest while she studies him. “Are you sure you have Type 1 Diabetes?”

“Aye. My whole life.”

“Hmm.”

“‘ _Hmm_?’”

“Well, it’s just that...your body is reacting to the insulin like you aren’t diabetic.”

“As I said,” he shrugs. “I’ve had the blasted thing all my life.”

Her lips purse at him. “Well, I want to run some tests anyway if you don’t mind.” The last thing she wants to be doing is giving insulin to a man who doesn’t need it.

He nods his assent curtly and gets up to leave, walking through the door without his usual farewell. Emma stays in place for a long while after, wondering at that itch that’s back between her shoulder blades.

\----------

“How long is this going to take?”

“Somewhere you have to be, Jones?”

“Just thinking of you, love. I’m sure you have a line of patients you should be attending to instead of sitting here with me.”

“How thoughtful of you,” she deadpans, sticking him with the needle and pinching his index finger between her thumb and forefinger to draw out the blood. “You’ll be glad to know that with the new glucose kits, we should have the results in about 10 seconds. It used to take hours.” She takes the sample of his blood on the strip then slides it into the machine. “See? The meter does all the work. We’ll be able to tell if you’ve been misdiagnosed in no time.”

He seems...agitated. Fidgety. On edge. His leg bounces in a restless rhythm while he sits perpendicular to her, eyes wild and reflecting something that suspiciously resembles panic. Emma’s brow furrows when he scrubs a hand over his face. “You alright?”

“Aye. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You tell me. You seem...nervous.”

“I do?”

“You’re sweating,” she says matter-of-factly. “Amongst other things.”

“Must be the needles. I never did get used to them.”

The meter beeps, echoing in the quiet exam room and making him flinch in his seat as it signals the completion of the reading. She doesn’t reach for it right away, watching him with careful eyes. “Somehow between diabetes and those tattoos, I find that hard to believe.”

He gives her a tight smile, glancing away to point at the machine with his chin. “What’s it say?”

She reaches for it blindly, more interested in deciphering every nuance of his current expression rather than seeing the actual results themselves. When she looks down to read the numbers, her brow furrows in confusion. “Well...according to this, you’re definitely diabetic.”

Killian smiles, sighs with the strangest of looks on his face -- something akin to _relief_ \-- and Emma’s eyes narrow at him. She’s always prided herself in her ability to read people, her parents even call it her ‘super power,’ and the way she’s reading Jones right now, oh yeah, she would definitely call that look one of relief. It’s such a bizarre reaction to have and it makes her feel so unsettled.

“Great! Well, now that that’s over, is there anything else that you need from me?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Not right now. You’re free to go.”

“See you Wednesday.”

She says nothing as he leaves, propping her elbow on the arm of her chair and tapping her finger absentmindedly against her lips while she muses on his odd behavior. Her head nurse comes in then, a petite, long-haired brunette with light eyes, whistling appreciatively under her breath after Killian closes the door.

“ _Cute_ ,” Ruby says, leaning back to peek through the glass window and watch him go.

“ _Prisoner_ ,” Emma retorts, shooting a glare at her.

“So? Still cute.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, swiveling in her chair to turn back to her desk. Her gaze falls to the meter one more time, reading the numbers on the screen again just to be sure she saw them right.

\----------

Emma spends a lot of time going over Killian’s file, more than she would ever dare admit, staying in the infirmary late to read up on him and his incarceration. It’s nothing she hasn’t already seen -- she practically has the damn thing memorized -- but she can’t shake the feeling like something isn’t quite adding up.

He’s a dichotomy, an enigma, and he confuses the hell out of her.

He’s a convict, but he’s _charming_. Funny, kind, _intelligent_. So unlike what she’s used to inside these four walls. There’s a realness about him that intrigues her, a cautiousness that makes her simultaneously want to chip away at his layers and also run from them because they remind her so much of herself.

But there’s something always calculating in his gaze, like he’s seeing more than just the surface of things and people and situations, and it shouldn’t -- because it’s dangerous -- but god help her, that piques her curiosity too.

\----------

“You want to tell me where this came from?” she asks as she’s treating a cut to his cheek. No broken bones, but it’s deep enough to leave a scar.

“You want to tell me your first name? It seems only fair considering you know mine.”

“ _Jones._ ”

“Basketball.”

“Basketball?”

“Vicious game,” he shrugs. “You never know when you’ll catch an elbow to the cheek.”

She pauses, stares at him hard and disbelieving. Besides, she’s always pegged him more for the soccer type, if he’s anything like the people from his country of origin, but she nods anyway. “Alright, _fine_. What about the rest of your face?”

It looks like he’s been beaten with a sledgehammer -- deep purple bruises blooming beneath his eye and along his jaw. He has little to say on the matter and she feels her temper spark, suddenly angry for a whole slew of reasons. Because he’s keeping things from her. Because she knows he’s being bullied. Because she can’t _help_ him if he doesn’t _fess up_.

“Jones,” she sighs. “Killian. I can help you. I can file a report and-”

“Nice flowers.”

“Nice deflection.”

“Do we have an admirer, love?”

She’s not answering that. It’s none of his business anyway and if he’s going to freeze her out, she can freeze him out too.

“What’s the occasion?” he presses.

Emma shrugs. She doesn’t care about the stupid flowers. The Governor sends them every year to her and her parents on their respective birthdays, and the only reason Regina even sends them, is because she knows they don’t want her to.

“What’s the occasion, Swan?”

Her sigh is full of exasperation at the way he drops her formal title. “Feeling casual today, are we?”

He continues to give her that expectant look.

“It’s my birthday,” she huffs.

“Today?”

“Yeah.”

“Happy Birthday, Emma.”

She blinks owlishly at his soft voice. At the use of her real name and the way it sounds on his lips. 

“I’ll make you a deal,” he continues. “When I get out of here, _alive_ , I’ll take you to dinner. For your birthday.” He smiles then, bright and toothy at her lack of response. “Lunch?” He cants his head at her, tongue poking into his cheek as amusement flashes in his eyes. “No? How about a cup of coffee then?”

“Look,” she snaps abruptly, pressing a little harder than necessary when she secures the first butterfly closure bandage on his check and causes him to wince. It was a cheap shot, but she doesn’t care. “This _charm_ act you’ve got going? It’s exactly what’s getting you in trouble out in the yard. Now if you’ve got a death wish, _fine_ , but if you even want to make it to your next meal in _here_? You need to cut it out, Killian.”

He presses his lips together at her outburst, expression shifting at the seriousness of hers. He is quiet after that, keeping his flirty quips to himself and allowing her to finish bandaging him with nothing more than a few minimal flinches beneath her still angry fingers.

\----------

He’s back a few days later -- nose bloodied, lip cut, and a cracked rib to boot.

“Let me guess,” she says, voice biting. “ _Football_?”

“Vicious game,” he grumbles, breathing hard as she helps him onto the table. “You never know when you’ll be tackled by a brick wall disguised as a linebacker.”

“I need you to tell me what happened.” Her tone is soft but pleading while she flutters around the room to grab supplies.

“No.”

“Killian-”

“It’s nothing.”

She holds her tongue after that, pouring all of her focus into cleaning the blood off of him and assessing the damage to his face. Her anger is overwhelming, knocking her off-balance, and the only way to remedy that is to detach emotionally and slip into complete doctor mode.

The lip should heal well enough, but she won’t know if his nose is broken until the swelling goes down. There’s not much to do about the ribs, even if it would ease his pain with the added support of bandaging them. It exposes him to even more dangerous issues -- a collapsed lung, increased chances of pneumonia. All things Emma isn’t willing to risk. He’ll just have to let them heal on their own.

She’s easing him back against the bed when she accidentally jostles him, wincing as he hisses in pain. Her fingers are a gentle apology against the injury, soothing where she can, but the second he settles down and his body finally relaxes, she works herself up all over again.

“This isn’t _nothing_ , Killian,” she retorts, hating how the snap betrays her mounting frustration and underlying feelings of...something else. Something she doesn’t even want to admit to herself, let alone to him.

“I don’t want to lie to you, love,” he tells her honestly, groaning on a ragged breath.

“Then don’t.”

“You threw away your flowers,” he comments instead.

It’s another nice redirect, she’ll give him that much. She sighs and her shoulders jerk up once. “They won't last.”

“They’re not dead yet.”

Emma doesn’t like getting attached to things, particularly if she knows they won’t last. She doesn’t tell him as much, but he’s annoyingly perceptive.

“Why are you so cynical?”

“I think there’s cynicism and then there’s realism.”

“What about optimism? Hope? Faith-”

“Pixie dust?” she quips, cutting him off.

“I’m being serious.”

“The only thing that’s serious, is this rib.”

He shrugs, smirks just enough to keep his lip from splitting again. “Ribs are overrated.”

“Killian. Listen to me, _by law_ I’m obligated to file a report for prisoner misconduct...and judging by your injuries, there’s no way you-”

“Emma, if you file a report, the only thing you’re going to accomplish is making things worse for me.”

She hates how casually it slips from his lips -- _Emma_ \-- like they’re more than just the roles they’ve been designated in this room: doctor and patient. It’s only the second time, but it feels like he’s been saying it forever. “Worse than this?”

“This is nothing compared to what they could be.” He takes a deep, slow breath, hand holding his ribs as he does so, as if testing how much he can actually inhale without hurting himself. “I’ve made some enemies.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Aren’t you scared?” She huffs at his lack of reply. “ _Men._ Here’s what I think, I think you _are_ scared. But I also think that you wouldn’t be human in a place like this if you weren’t.”

“You know, when I was younger, I had difficulty sleeping at night, believing there to be a monster beneath my bed. In the closet. Hiding in the shadows.” The smile that tugs up the corners of his mouth is soft, affectionate almost, and Emma pauses to listen. “My brother taught me that there wasn’t anything under my bed or in the closet, or lurking in shadowy corners. No monsters, just fear.”

“Your brother sounds like a smart man.” Like his hero. Like his whole world. But Emma keeps those thoughts to herself.

Killian chuckles at that. “He is. He said that fear wasn’t real, that you just have to face it. But in here, when you face your fear and you check under your bed, or you open that door, or venture into the shadows, there’s a hundred more beds and doors and corners...and the monsters that are there? They are all real.”

Her throat closes up at that, unsure of what to say. It’s a mistake, a line she shouldn’t cross, but she reaches for him anyway, her hand resting lightly over his arm. “It doesn’t have to be like this, I can recommend that you be sent to-”

“Absolutely not.”

“You realize you could get killed in here, right?” She doesn’t snap, but it’s a near thing. His nonchalance about his life continues to irritate her. To frighten her. “If you’re not careful?”

“The only who should be careful, _Dr. Swan_ , is you. A man might start to think you care about him,” he teases, his smile soft and genuine and so very real.

“You’re my _patient_ , Killian,” she sighs, and it sounds as good of an excuse as any. “Your wellbeing is my number one priority.”

“Thank you,” he answers, interrupting her with a firm voice. “But I’ll be fine. See you tomorrow.”

The close of his eyes signals the end of their conversation and she frowns. There is nothing she can’t stand more than feeling helpless, but in many ways he’s tied her hands and she has no choice but to leave him there to rest. She’ll have the nurse bring in some painkillers and speak with the Senior Corrections Officer about the incident (gently but firmly reminding him about the rules in regards to prisoner misconduct) then add some notes to his file before seeing a few more patients. Whatever she can do to keep busy.

She turns at the door for one last look at him, and he must sense that she lingers there because he angles his head to her and cracks his eyes open.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

Her brow furrows in mild confusion.

“About the flowers, I mean,” he elaborates.

Their gazes hold for heartbeats more and then she goes without another word.

\----------

He’s exceptionally chipper the following morning, smiling around the prominent purple bruises on his poor swollen face. His threshold for pain is admirable, but it still makes her stomach turn to see him in the aftermath of the attacks.

“Hi,” he greets.

Her gaze flickers to him, though she has very little to say -- not after his stubborn refusal to accept her help -- so she busies herself with preparing his daily dose of insulin.

“Ah, the silent treatment.”

He deserves a lot more, like a swift kick in the ass, but given the injuries he’s already sustained, she doesn’t have it in her. She plops down in her chair and rolls over to the exam table, waiting for him to push his sleeve up. The way he continues to watch her is unnerving, but she refuses to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Don’t be cross, love.”

She’ll be whatever she wants, thank you.

“Emma-”

Her name is cut off by his abrupt grunt and flinch when she jabs him a little too forcefully with the needle. He doesn’t protest, but his jaw is tight and he scowls at her.

“You bloody did that on purpose.”

Oh, so _now_ he has a limit to pain? _Idiot_. She doesn’t bother sparing him a look.

He sighs then, a sharp little huff of air as he scratches behind his ear. “I don’t wish to be at odds with you, Emma. Believe it or not, I quite fancy you from time to time...when you’re not yelling at me.”

“I don’t yell at you.”

“A-ha!” he points his finger at her, grin blooming wide. “Speaking then.”

“Look, buddy. I know what you’re trying to do-”

“Pull a smile from you?” he grins.

She glowers in turn. “You can save your breath, I’m not in the mood.”

“You never know,” he replies in that charming way of his, cheeks dimpled and smile crooked.

Without a doubt, he is one of the most insufferable man she’s ever met. “We’re finished here, see you tomorrow.”

Emma rolls away from him, turning her back to dispose of the needle and remove her gloves. She hears him slide off the exam table, hears his receding footsteps and the quiet click of the door as he leaves, and she doesn’t know why (she absolutely knows why), but she swivels in her chair to watch him go. Her eyes peer through the glass window of the door until he disappears around the corner, and just before she turns back to her desk, something green and red atop his open file catches her attention.

It’s a flower. An origami rose.

She is momentarily stunned, jaw slack and eyes wide on the paper bloom. Her stomach flips and an ache forms in her chest the same moment all of her frustration and anger dissipates. The flower is plucked between her fingertips so she can examine it closer.

Delicate. Beautiful. But something made to last.

She shakes her head on a heavy sigh, and she doesn’t smile about it, but later she might. Later, she just might.

\----------

“Emma, wait up!” Ruby’s snow boots crunch along the icy pavement as she hustles to catch up with her on their way out of the building.

“Hey, Ruby,” she greets. “What’s up?”

“Did you hear the news?” Her eyes are gleaming with gossip and mischief.

Emma’s never been one for gossip, or mischief for that matter, so she most definitely hasn’t heard. Besides, she’s got more pressing matters to concern herself with. Like a dark-haired, blue-eyed inmate that refuses to leave her thoughts, even when she goes home for the day. “What news?”

“ _They’re brothers._ ”

“Well, that’s not vague at all,” she chuckles. “Who?”

“Atwood and Jones!”

She stops in her tracks at that, brows pinching together. “Wait, _what_?”

“Crazy, right? I guess a family that goes to jail together...”

“Hang on, _Killian_ Jones?” There’s only one ‘Jones’ currently in the prison, but she needs to hear the confirmation anyway.

“ _Yes_ , Emma!” Ruby snorts. “Keep up! You know, the cute one. Although, the older brother isn’t that bad either, come to think of it-”

“Half-brothers?”

“Full! Liam changed to their mother’s maiden name -- or so the story goes -- but no one knows when or why.”

The walk to their cars is slow, despite the cold, and Ruby’s chatter fades out from her mind, her only focus on the new information that’s been revealed. Liam Atwood and Killian Jones are _brothers_.

Atwood has been an inmate at the State Penitentiary for quite some time, awaiting his execution that’s to take place at the end of the month for the murder of the Vice President’s son. She is absolutely floored and also astounded that she hadn’t made the connection herself.

Apart from the accent, they share the same dark hair. The same striking blue eyes. The same stubborn set of their mouths. Even down to the beauty marks on their right cheeks. Beyond the physical, they have quite a few personality traits in common as well -- being headstrong is probably the main one, though broody is a close second.

Brothers.

Jesus Christ.

And both in prison, what are the odds?

Emma chews at her bottom lip while she muses on that. It just doesn’t sit right with her. The way she sees it, it’s not her job to judge anyone for their crimes, but she’s worked in the system long enough to be able to peg the extreme personalities and pick out the psychotic murderers from the petty criminals, and while looks can definitely be deceiving, she’s never thought of Liam as a cold-blooded killer.

Just as she’s never thought of Killian as a criminal.

“Emma, are you okay?”

That snaps her out of her thoughts. “Sorry, what?”

“You’re spacing out a little over there,” Ruby laughs lightly. “Are you alright?”

“Sorry.” She shakes her head as if emptying out her mind. “It’s just been a long day. What were you saying?”

“Just that I heard one of the officers talking about it this afternoon after chapel. That must be so hard on Jones, you know? Being that close to your brother and not being able to help him.”

She makes some noise of agreement to appease Ruby, though she’s not really paying much attention again. Too fixated on the fact that the puzzle pieces still don’t fit where Killian Jones is concerned. If anything, they’ve just gotten a hell of a lot more complicated.

\----------

“You never told me Liam Atwood was your brother.” She hopes her voice sounds more casual than she feels.

“It never came up.” His body tenses for a brief moment before it relaxes with his shrug.

“Was it because of my relations to the Governor?”

“My father was a liar and a coward who abandoned Liam and I when we were mere lads.” His voice is sharp, cutting, before it softens too. “I don’t judge anyone by their relations, if that was your concern.”

She snaps her gloves off after she’s finished with his shot, leaning back against the counter while she speaks with him. “Just for the record, I don’t agree with her politics-”

“I know that, I figured as much that second day-”

“And I’m sorry about your brother.”

“I appreciate that.”

She gives him a small smile and turns to leave, then abruptly faces him again. She has so many questions, but she doesn’t ask any of them. “I have to administer weekly check-ups for Liam now. If you wanted...I could schedule those appointments so that they finish right before you come in for your insulin shots. It’s not much, but you’d be able to see each other. Even if it’s just in passing.”

That takes him off-balance, she can tell by the way his eyes widen and his hands grip at the edge of the exam table. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” She slides her hands into the pocket of her coat. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

\-----------

It’s...different walking in to exam Liam now -- now that she knows he’s Killian’s brother, now that she’s less detached by association.

He’s never been overly warm or friendly in the past and while she’s never blamed him -- because if it were her in his shoes, awaiting her death, she can only imagine the kind of torment she’d be in -- she thinks his sudden change in demeanor towards her is Killian’s doing.

“Hi,” she greets, stepping into his room just as Killian walks by on his way to his cell.

Liam doesn’t reply, his gaze trained on his brother. She watches him give Killian a reassuring nod of his head and Killian’s troubled eyes flicker to her. Her heart feels heavy for them and she presses her lips together to keep her emotions in check. When she turns, she finds Liam’s watchful gaze directed at her.

She clears her throat, a little agitated by his silent perusal, but she holds her ground. “How are you feeling today, Liam?”

The older Atwood-Jones brother shrugs as Emma sets his file down and reaches around her neck for her stethoscope. She approaches him, unnerved by the way he won’t stop looking at her.

“Everything okay?”

“He told me what you said you’d do.”

She cants her head at that. “Who?”

“Killian. For us.”

“Oh.”

“Thank you.”

She gives him an empathetic smile and presses the instrument to his chest to listen to his heartbeat. Satisfied by the steady rhythm, she moves lower to listen to the airflow in his lungs. “Deep breath.”

“You care about him.”

She cannot help the way her eyes shoot to his mid-exam. She doesn’t reply to the observation, but judging by Liam’s look, he doesn’t expect her to. He smiles then, for the first time in the entire time she’s known him.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Swan. Your secret’s safe with me. I’ll be taking it to the grave soon enough anyway.”

“One more time,” she instructs, voice clipped, ignoring him despite the anxious way her stomach twists itself into knots.

“I don’t blame you. My brother is easy to love. He’s incredibly loyal, you know,” he says, tilting his head down to gaze at the floor. “To a fault sometimes. But you’ll not find a kinder man.”

“Or a stubborn one.” The words are out before she can help it.

Liam merely grins at her. “Of that, we are most certainly in agreement.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not in love with your brother.”

“Well, he’s halfway in love with you.”

If he intends to shock her, he does a very good job. The end of the stethoscope slips from her grasp and heat creeps up into her cheeks. She avoids his gaze this time, cursing internally and fumbling to get the chestpiece back on him.

“Yeah, well, I administer his life-saving medication,” she mutters grumpily. “It’s an occupational hazard.”

Liam chuckles at that -- also a first -- and when she chances a glance at him, his eyes are full of amusement and warmth. He has nothing more to say while she finishes his exam, but Emma doesn’t mind. She’s never been more relieved to finish an appointment.

\----------

It happens so fast, one minute the alarm is going off, signaling a riot somewhere on prison grounds, then her wing is being shut down for security precautions, and the next minute she’s being attacked by a giant brute of a man. She manages to get away, but there’s nowhere to go in a locked wing with six other prisoners out for blood, and she ends up trapped in an office, nothing but bulletproof glass between her and them.

Her heart is racing, mind reeling, and she’s dizzy with adrenaline and fear. The inmates taunt her through the windows, leering at her like wild beasts stalking their prey, shouting the most obscene, sickening things that make her want to vomit or pass out. She’s tougher than that, though, proves it to herself and especially to them when she uses her wits and all available resources inside the room -- medication, needles, broken glass wielded as a weapon -- to protect herself and keep them at bay for as long as possible.

They’re vicious though, and she knows she’s on borrowed time. There’s already a crack in the door glass and it’s just a matter of time before the chair they’re using to try to break through it actually works. All the phone lines are dead and the officers that had been in the wing with her are as well. Terror begins to claw at her stomach, threatening to overwhelm her.

There’s a hand that grabs her shoulder then and she jumps, startled, whirling around with a scream lodged in her throat. But when she turns, no one is there. Only a hand dangling from the ceiling above and when she looks up, a pair of familiar blue, worried eyes is staring back at her.

 _Killian_.

“Take my hand, come on! Trust me!” he shouts down at her.

She’s never been more relieved to see someone in her entire life. She reaches for him without hesitation, survival at the forefront of her mind, using the desk for leverage to hoist herself up. He pulls her the rest of the way, into the safety of the ceiling.

He places his hand on her shoulder, probably in an attempt to soothe her since she’s shaking terribly, but she flinches away from the touch, trying not to be sick all over him. They are far from being in the clear and if they have any hope of surviving, she cannot have a breakdown, which she absolutely will if she attempts to accept any comfort at the moment.

“Are you alright?” he asks. He reaches for her again, stopping when she winces away. “Easy,” he says softly. “I won’t hurt you, love. I swear it.”

She lets out a shaky breath but nods her head at him. “I’m fine. Sorry, it’s not you. I just-” She exhales again. “I’m fine.”

He contemplates her for a moment, maybe making his own assessment on her well-being, but eventually he nods his head too. “Very well.” Then he gestures beneath them. “See these pipes? We’re staying on them. We’ll use them to go through the wall and get across the hallway. We’re going to get out of here, Swan. I promise. All you have to do is stay close to me.”

She nods again, firmer this time, and takes a few more breaths to steady herself. “Okay. Yeah, okay.”

He jerks his head in the direction of the wall. “Let’s go.”

As they begin crawling through the ceiling, she can hear the other prisoners hot on their heels, not quite below them but close enough to make her want to scream in a mix of frustration and terror. But she pushes through the emotions, through the cramps in her legs, and keeps right behind Killian as best she can. They make it another twenty feet before she asks him for a minute just to catch her breath.

“Have you ever been to Baja? Mexico?” he wonders, interrupting her thoughts and the struggle she’s having to pull air into her lungs.

“Seriously?” she asks, but she is unable to muster up any of the annoyance she usually has for him.

“There’s a place down there...twenty dollars a night, a hammock on the back deck. The beers are fifty cents- twenty-five cents during Happy Hour-”

She snorts at him, but doesn’t say anything in reply.

“Have you ever been to England? England’s beautiful too,” he tells her. “Rainy at times, and cold, but-”

“Killian, if you’re trying to calm me down, you’re doing a really bad job,” she replies, though she chuckles despite herself. Then her expression suddenly shifts into something serious as she catches his gaze. “Why are you here anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“Crawling around the ceiling...risking your life.”

He is silent for a long time, eyes locked on hers -- endlessly blue and intense in the dimness of the crawl space. He says so much without actually saying a word and though she swallows thickly, it does nothing to dislodge the lump caught in her throat.

“You needed help,” he says quietly. “So I came to find you.”

“How’d you know where to go?”

“When the alarms went off in A Wing, the Correctional Officers left the station. I saw you on the monitors. One of my first assignments for Prison Industries was to come up here to clean the toxic mold. It took days to get through so I’m rather familiar with the layout.”

“ _What?_ ” she asks, brow furrowing.

“‘Prison Industries,’ you know, the prison-run work program for inmates-”

“No, no.” She waves him off. “I know what P.I. is, I just can’t believe they would assign that job to you. I hope you wore a mask.”

He gives her a quizzical look.

“To prevent inhalation? Mold can be really dangerous.”

“Aye, aye. Not to worry, Swan, I wore a mask,” he smiles.

“No what?” she wonders, noting the gleam in his eyes.

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “It’s just...your caring is showing again.”

Her cheeks warm at that. “I’m a doctor-”

“And I’m your patient. I know, I know. I’ve heard it all before.” Though by his look, she suspects he doesn’t quite believe her excuses. (If she’s to be honest, neither does she.) “Now, how are you feeling? We have to keep moving.”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“We’re almost there.” He smiles at her again. “By the way, the door to the Visitation Room, have you ever used it?”

“No, but my access card should work-”

“Sh-sh-shhh!” he hisses suddenly, ceasing all movement and pointing to the tile closest to her that’s begun to move.

A surge of dread ignites through her veins and when he motions her over, she wastes no time closing the distance between them to press herself into his side. The tile lifts completely then, a head poking up through the space, and Killian promptly kicks at it with his boot-clad foot. There’s a muffled scream followed by some cursing as the head disappears and the tile clatters back into place. She has no time to react, no time to let loose her own scream, because Killian quickly grabs onto her wrist and tugs her along as he continues moving forward.

They _finally_ make it across the hallway, hustling through the tiny space as fast as they can. He works another tile out of place in order to climb down, reaching up for her the second he’s on solid ground. Hands grasp beneath her armpits to help ease her from the ceiling, and on the last foot down -- in perfect movie timing, if she does say so herself -- gravity takes over and she loses her grip, slipping the rest of the way and colliding into him. Her arms wind around his neck for support and his slip around her waist to catch her, taking the brunt of her fall. The way her body presses into his, how it moves against him as she slides down and he gently sets her on her feet, makes her breath catch, trapping the air in her lungs. Her heart hammers against her ribcage, though she’s not entirely sure it’s merely the adrenaline this time, and she’s positive he must be able to feel it because she can feels his -- beating to time with hers.

Outside the walls of the little room of the infirmary, with their faces scant inches apart and their eyes locked on each other, and all semblance of personal space forgotten, the tension between them -- the _attraction_ \-- surges forth like a tidal wave. Like a near-tangible thing.

Out here, they’re just a man and a woman with too many feelings and unspoken words between them.

Her eyes flicker down to his mouth of their own accord -- _twice_ , god help her -- and his stormy eyes are wide, wide open. Vulnerable. Wanting. Frightening in the best possible way and she’s not sure who moves first, but suddenly he’s right there, warm breath puffing out over her lips as her nose gently bumps against his. The hands on her hips tighten, fingertips digging into her flesh through the material of her slacks, and she feels her eyes flutter close as she rests her forehead against his.

“Killian...”

“Yes, Emma?”

The deep inhale of air she takes does little to ease the anxiety she feels -- the anticipation -- because she’s pretty sure in another second she’s going to kiss him.

And he’s going to let her.

“ _Hey!_ ” someone shouts, shattering the moment and causing them to spring apart like two teenagers. “ _Jones!_ ”

It’s one of the inmates from earlier. Her stomach sinks heavily with alarm.

“You gonna keep the doc all to yourself?” he asks Killian.

Killian shuffles her behind him, one arm protectively blocking her out of the way just as the other inmate’s eyes land back on her. It takes her a moment to recover, head still reeling from the kiss that almost was, but when she does, she immediately takes a defensive stance, planting her feet as his tongue swipes disgustingly over his teeth. He laughs, a cruel and menacing sound, then lunges for her. A gasp tears from her throat when Killian moves with lightning speed, shoving her back and grabbing their attacker in a headlock before he can get to her. He appears to have the upper hand until another inmate appears out of nowhere and goes straight for him.

Emma leads with her instinct -- and self-defense training from her father -- rearing back with her foot, her knee against her chest, before kicking downwards and using the heel of her boot to break the other man’s leg. He goes down like a baby, wailing gibberish with tears streaming down his face; meanwhile, Killian has managed to cut off his assailant’s oxygen supply, rendering him unconscious and giving them another opportunity to escape.

She knows this wing, knows these doors and hallways and motions quickly at Killian. “Come on! This way!”

They round a corner, sprinting through a doorway then immediately backtracking and ducking out of view. The Visitation Room is just across the corridor and the only thing that stands in their way, is the rest of the inmates that happen to be there. Persistently hunting them.

Killian swears, hands scrubbing frustratedly over his face and dragging through his hair. “We can’t go this way.” He shakes his head, suddenly agitated, looking torn about something.

“We have to. There’s no other way to the Visitation-”

“Yes, there is,” he cuts her off, voice firm. “It’s back this way-”

“Killian, if you’re wrong-”

“ _Trust me._ ”

He doesn’t wait for her to answer, and she doesn’t blame him. Every second they spend arguing is one second they can’t spare. Not if they want to live. So when he turns around and goes through another doorway, she chases after him, running across a new hallway and several more doors.

“That’s it!” she hears him say, and despite her heartbeat ringing in her ears and her lungs burning for air, she sees that he’s right. The police are visible through the windows, as are the cop cars with their flashing lights and the snipers positioned outside the entrance of the door. Immediately she reaches for the card in her back pocket and makes for the exit.

But she freezes just a few feet from it, turning so her gaze finds his and latches on tight. Her fingers curl around the card reflexively, a precautionary thing -- it’s her only chance for escape, after all. (Or perhaps it’s merely done to keep from reaching for him.)

“I can’t leave you here,” she tells him, and if her eyes don’t betray her, her words -- her _voice_ \-- most certainly do. 

“You don’t have a choice, love,” he replies quietly. “Besides, I’m one of the bad guys, remember?” He has the audacity to wink at her before nodding towards the door and her ticket to freedom. “Go on, Swan. It’s alright.”

The other inmates are close, hot on their heels still and angrier than before. At least, if the ruckus they are causing as they search for them is any indication.

“What are you going to do?” She finds herself inching back towards him, traitorous feet.

“Return to my cell,” he shrugs. “Keep out of the way-”

She gasps at the bright red dot that suddenly appears on his chest. “ _Killian!_ ”

He looks down at the horrified tone in her voice and sees it too. Then his eyes are back on hers, pleading. “You have to _go_ , Emma.”

“I can’t,” she protests, shaking her head. “They’ll kill you.”

The smile he gives her is soft and he nods encouragingly at her. “Once you make it out of the door, I’ll drop to the floor-”

Emma shakes her head sharply, she’s not an idiot. “They’re sharpshooters, Killian, they won’t miss.”

“I know,” he whispers, sighing heavily. He touches her then, fingers gentle on her arms but searing heat through her long sleeve and onto her skin. “That’s why you can’t stay here, Emma-”

“Doc! I’m coming, Doc!” one of the inmates calls, too close for comfort yet again.

“ _Go!_ ” Killian yells, taking the momentary distraction to catch her off-guard, turning her around and shoving her towards the door.

She has no time to fight him or resist before the cool morning air touches her skin and the sunlight blinds her sight. The sound of gunfire goes off around her but her entire world is a blur of muted noise and slow-motion movement, a solitary thought consuming her mind: _Killian_. She doesn’t stop running, no matter how heavy her limbs feel, and she chances a glance over her shoulder the second she is flanked by snipers, eyes frantic and searching. But she can’t see anyone standing inside and her stomach promptly drops out.

She is led away -- faces she doesn’t know, hands that bring no comfort -- and can only hope that he is safe. She can only pray that he’d gotten away -- that he’s _alive_.

(Later, as she waits to be cleared by the paramedics, she has an officer bring her the complete list of the injured and the dead from the riot, shaking hands gripping the clipboard as her eyes frantically search for Killian’s name. She doesn’t breathe easy again, not until she’s satisfied that he isn’t on there.)

\----------

“You kept it,” he murmurs.

“Kept what?”

At his silence, she looks up at him, only to find his attention on the origami rose sitting in her pen holder. She can feel her face surge with heat, warming her cheeks and the tips of her ears, though she refrains from commenting on his observation.

“Yeah, well, I’m a hoarder. I never throw anything out.”

Killian glances around at his surroundings, at the state of her very tidy desk. “Aye, all this clutter...is, ah…very unbecoming of you, love.”

“This is nothing,” she mutters. “You should see my apartment.”

He grins at that, eyes full of mischief.

“ _Dr. Swan_ ,” he teases, tongue poking into his cheek. “While not unwelcome, that’s surprisingly forward. You haven’t even allowed me the honor of our first date, and here you are already inviting me in. How scandalous.”

Their eyes meet again and his playful expression reverts into a serious one at her own somber look. He reaches up to scratch behind his ear in that nervous tick of his.

“I thought you might take a day off,” he says after a moment. “What with the riot yesterday.”

Her throat closes up at that, and she forces back the unpleasant memories that had kept her from sleep for most of the night.

“How are you faring, are you alright?”

“No rest for the wicked, Mr. Jones, you know that.”

“So it’s back to ‘Mr. Jones,’ is it?” He gives a wry laugh at her lack of response. “I do hope that you don’t feel as though you are indebted to me for-”

“I am, though,” she interrupts. “I have a rather clear picture of what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up when you did. It’s not pretty and I...” She takes a breath to steady herself. “I just really, _really_ appreciate what you did for me.”

“But?”

She thinks back to the day before, the conversation she had with the head of the Prison Industries department who had happened by while she had been sitting in the back of an ambulance, awaiting her clearance.

_“Eric!”_

_“Dr. Swan,” he smiles. “Glad to see you made it out alive.”_

_“Yeah, me too,” she smiles back. “Ah...would you mind if I asked you something?”_

_“Not at all. What can I help you with?”_

_“Why did your department assign inmates on P.I. to do the mold removal for the ceilings in A Wing?”_

_He looks confused, brows pinching together. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow...what mold removal?”_

_Her eyes narrow at that, an unpleasant feeling creeping up her spine and settling uncomfortably between her shoulder blades. It’s a feeling she’s had before. “In...the crawl space? In the ceilings?” she repeats._

_“P.I. didn’t go there,” Eric shakes his head. “We’d never assign inmates to do that, mold inhalation is dangerous.”_

_Those were her sentiments exactly. “Right, sorry. I must be confused.”_

_“Yeah, no problem. Let me know if you need me to clear something else up for you.”_

“ _But_...” Emma tells Killian, discarding the syringe when she’s finished and leaning on the edge of her desk to put some much needed space between them. “When we were up in the ceiling, you told me that you’d been up there for P.I. work.”

“Aye,” he says cautiously, and she has a front row seat to watching his eyes go carefully neutral. A reaction she would have missed had she not been paying such close attention to him. “What of it?”

“P.I. was never assigned to that project.”

Killian abruptly rises to his feet, jerky movements working the sleeve of his shirt down. “We’re done here, correct?”

“Jones- _Killian._ Don’t be like this. I just...I just want some answers.” Some honesty, but she doesn’t say that last part out loud.

He stares at her for a long time, deep blue eyes guarded and full of secrets. “Thank you for the shot, Dr. Swan. See you tomorrow.”

He leaves without so much as a parting look, and she stands there feeling a little lost and a little confused, and more than a little worried over the conflicted feelings gathering just beneath her breastbone.

\----------

Emma finds herself in an increasingly familiar scenario -- past working hours, late into the night, reaching for Killian Jones’ file. She had stayed to finish some paperwork but had barely been able to concentrate. After half an hour of staring blankly at her screen, she was no longer surprised to see her hands reaching out and curling around the edges of his folder.

Ever since that first day they’d met, when he’d been able to disarm her with nothing more than a look, it’s like she hasn’t been able to catch her breath. He jumbles up her insides. Confuses her common sense. Keeps her from sleep with her mind on a constant look of unanswered questions. There’s a part of her that thinks maybe if she just looks one more time, or reads something again, all of the pieces will finally make sense.

She’s wrong, of course, because the more she reads, the less she seems to understand.

The door squeaks on its hinges when it slowly opens, drawing Emma attention towards it. She glances over just in time to see Ruby poke her head inside the room.

“Emma? What are you still doing here?” she asks, pushing the door open the rest of the way and walking up behind her to peek over her shoulder.

“Nothing!” She scrambles to hide the paperwork spread out across her desk, shaking her head at her co-worker, but it’s too late. Ruby’s already seen them.

“You _stalker_!”

“I am _not_ a stalker. I just...I don’t get it.”

“What do you mean? What’s there to get?”

“He doesn’t fit the profile. The man’s got a graduate degree. He had a nice car, a stable, well-paying job...he lives in my neighborhood -- or he used to, prior to going to prison.” She leaves out the part about how sometimes she wonders what would have happened if they had met, before all of this. Some random day. Their paths crossing on the sidewalk. At that coffee shop on the corner. During a jog in the park.

Would he have approached her so boldly as he has inside these walls? Would she have accepted his advances?

“Men like Killian Jones hang out in Streeterville, Ruby. They drink expensive rum, they...go on week long vacations to Mexico or the Caribbean, they pay two hundred dollars for Cubs tickets that they never use -- or if they’re smart, resell. What they don’t do is _rob banks_.” She shuts the folder more aggressively than she means to, hand scrubbing tiredly over her face before pinching the bridge of her nose to relieve the tension behind her eyes. “He did a lot of good things before he was in here -- a ton of community work, a ton of charity work. I don’t get. I just don’t get it. What happened?”

The question is more rhetorical but Ruby stares at her for a long time -- quiet, contemplative. “Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?” she wonders, pulled away from her endless musings.

“Why do you care so much?”

“He lied to me.”

“So? That just makes him no different from the rest of them.”

“The thing is...I don’t think he wanted to.”

Ruby sighs. “Go home, Emma. You’ve had a rough last few days. I know you want to help, it’s in your nature. You’re a doctor, remember? But don’t drive yourself crazy over things you have no control over.”

She nods and chews restlessly on her bottom lip. Ruby’s right, of course, but she can’t help it. “Good night, Ruby.”

\----------

Liam’s execution date moves up.

By two weeks.

She gets the notice at the end of her shift. As his physician, she’s required to be present on the day of -- to monitor his vital signs and certify his death.

It leaves a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, one that haunts her all the way home and until the early hours of the morning. She drags herself out of bed just after dawn and goes into her office, searching through the Rolodex on her desk for two phone numbers: Liam’s lawyer and her Grandmother, the Governor.

Killian isn’t much for company or conversation when she sees him later that day. She doesn’t blame him, because after the morning she’s had, neither is she.

\----------

She should have known that it wasn’t just the sleeves. His whole torso -- front and back -- acts as one giant canvas for a tattoo. Random numbers and shapes and words throughout. Lines and lines with no rhyme or reason, behind a larger mural of sirens and anchors and other maritime objects. It’s a discovery she makes when he winds up on her exam table, face down and passed out, a portion of his shoulder bloody and charred -- burned completely off. He looks like hell, probably the worst she’s seen him, but his eyes are alert and trusting when he finally stirs awake and fixates them on her.

She feels her heart stutter in her chest at the careful way he watches her.

“How are you feeling?” she asks quietly.

“Groggy. Have I ever told you how stunning you are?”

“It’s the anesthesia.”

“No, I’m fairly certain you’re just beautiful.”

“Only fairly?”

He’s got a quip for that, she can practically see it on the tip of his tongue. Just as she can see the moment it disappears as his body is overcome with pain from attempting to move his arms. He hisses and swears, relaxing only when she reaches out and rests her hand on his good shoulder to soothe him.

“Damn it, don’t do that,” she chides.

“What the bloody hell did I need anesthesia for?”

“We had to do a procedure-”

“Am I naked?”

The corners of her mouth twitch. “Sorry, but no.”

“I feel naked.”

“Only shirtless.”

“And here I thought you were simply being forward again.”

“That’s not really my style.”

“I know. But I love a challenge.”

“Great. Then you’ll love this new injury.” And just like that, she’s mad all over again. It hangs heavily in the air between them, the tension rising thick and overwhelming.

“How bad is it?” he wonders quietly.

“Bad.”

“The tattoo...”

Of all the things to care more about. Jesus Christ. She almost snaps at him for it. “Gone.”

He swears at that and she says nothing more, brow puckered irritatedly. “May I see it?”

“No. Bandage stays on.”

The fight goes out of him with his sigh, body visibly deflating on the table. His eyes look tired, depthlessly blue and tempestuous, as if he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. She takes a step away from him when she is overcome by the desire to brush the hair back from his brow, to cross that line again and offer comfort where she shouldn’t. Her hand retreats from his back, fingers curling into her palm when she sidesteps back into the chair beside his bed that she’d been keeping vigil in through the evening.

“Well, Swan. It appears you’ve been the clean-up crew for me since I arrived here. Contusions, cracked ribs, insulin shots-”

“ _Burns_ ,” she retorts, interrupting him.

Killian ignores her tone, the corners of his lips tilting up. “My own personal savior.”

Emma snorts at that. “I’m no savior, not even close.”

“You are to me.” He says it softly and she wonders if it’s the anesthesia that’s made his tongue so loose. “I’m grateful, Emma, for everything that you do for me. I don’t think I’ve ever told you.”

There are other things he should be telling her instead, but she holds her tongue on that biting response.

“Do you ever wonder…perhaps in another life, if we-”

“Don’t, Killian. _Don’t_.” Never in her life has she met someone who tries so much of her patience. Never in her life has she met someone she’s been so afraid to care about.

“Why not? We’ve yet to even discuss what happened the day of the riot, when you almost-”

She jerks in her seat, spine ramrod straight “I refuse to be that woman.”

“I wasn’t asking you to be. But it is something to wonder about, don’t you think -- the _what if’_ s? Anyway, I just wanted to make sure it was said.”

There’s a tightness in her chest that makes it difficult to breathe, a twist of foreboding in her stomach that sets her on edge. She doesn’t like it one bit. “Why do I feel like you’re saying goodbye to me?”

His smile is soft, a little melancholy around the edges. “I suppose in a place like this, you just never know which day is going to be your last.” He reaches for her then, fingers closing around her forearm in a barely there caress, keeping her from moving too far out of reach. “Emma-”

She shakes her head, easing her arm from his grasp before lifting her eyes to his. “You know, I like to think of myself as a careful woman-”

“I _do_ know,” he grins, dimples flashing. “It’s a skittish, guarded thing you are, darling-”

“But for some reason, when I’m around you...I’m not. Careful, I mean.”

“I’m glad. You don't have to be, Swan-”

“ _Yes_ , I do.” Her arms cross in front of her, hands grasping onto her elbows. “There are so many questions surrounding you, Killian. Way too many, like... _who did this to you?_ ”

He tsks, a quiet protest. “You know I can’t answer that.”

Emma scoffs in reply.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, love. It’s that I _can’t_.”

“Killian.” His name is an exasperated sigh on her lips.

“Trust me, Emma. _Please_. It’s best that you don’t know.”

She is tired of running around in circles with him, so she doesn’t argue anymore, leaving him to rest before sending him back to his cell.

\----------

It was inevitable that they end up here, a stolen moment borne from months of dancing around each other, fueled by an invisible tether linking them together, drawing them further and further into the deep end. Further and further into each other.

She’d been helping him out of his shirt to check on his burn and redress the wound, when the garment had come off and his hand had fallen to her hip. His fingers had squeezed gently, the gesture drawing their eyes to meet, and she knew almost instantly that she was lost to the war she had been endlessly waging with herself.

_Don’t care about him._

_Don’t get attached to him._

_Do not, under any circumstances, fall in love with him._

But when their lips touch for the first time, when she feels his sharp inhalation of breath, and her mouth presses harder -- _firmer_ \-- against his, and she feels the echo of his sigh in her chest, she knows she’s already halfway there.

There’s a desperation in the way he kisses her, as if he means to absorb as much of this moment -- as much of _her_ \-- as possible. She understands the sentiment completely, and they kiss and kiss and kiss, until they are dizzy and weak-kneed. Until it’s almost too much.

It’s she who breaks the kiss in the end, but it’s also she who keeps him close with her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, their foreheads resting together and their noses bumping while they fight for breath.

He swallows thickly. “That was- um-”

“A one time thing,” she replies.

“Just one? That should at least be a two time thing.”

She laughs, she can’t help it, too far lost in this perfect little moment, her hands cradling his face, fingers mapping out the lines and curves and dips. The scar on his cheek.

“And three time,” he continues, words a whisper in the quiet room. “A four time, a five time-”

His words are cut off by the sudden crushing of her mouth to his again.

_Screw it._

She’s already crossed a line, broken a million rules -- both of the professional and personal variety -- and if she’s going to sin, she’s going to sin all the way. The next time they break apart, he takes his turn to touch her -- hands soft on her cheeks, framing her face, fingers twisting at the hair that spills forward over her shoulders.

“It won’t always be like this. In this room, in this place,” he tells her.

With a million secrets between them.

He doesn’t say it, but she knows what he means and she hopes so. She turns her head to kiss at his palm, something warm igniting in her chest and spreading outwards into her limbs. _God_ , she hopes so. 

\----------

He’s agitated, has had a nervous, restless energy about him all week.

She can’t even remember how many times she’s asked him for the truth, only to be met with a solid wall of resistance. But one day, while she’s standing between his legs administering his shot -- both of his hands cupping her face -- he finally gives it.

His hand smoothes back her hair when she’s finished, his eyes troubled. When he sighs, it’s a soft, quiet thing, and she finds her hands sliding up his torso, fingertips tracing over the bits of his tattoo peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt -- a comforting caress meant for himself as for her He leans towards her at the touch, his forehead tilting against hers.

“Killian? What is it?”

He hesitates, whole body tensing at her question. “I need you to do something for me. I need you to keep the infirmary unlocked tonight.”

That one little request makes her jolt away from him, confused eyes seeking his out. Her brow furrows, whole body tense while she stares at him. She doesn’t ask why, but the question is there all the same.

Killian expels a heavy breath, his gaze unwavering as he tries to reach out for her again. She steps back, just out of reach, and shakes her head, desperate for him to explain himself. The staring contest continues for what feels like an eternity, until finally, he starts to speak.

The funny thing about Killian, though, is that he’s always been good with words, even when he was keeping things from her, and this time is no different. He tells her a tale so wildly outrageous it makes her head spin and her breath ragged. Her knees buckle beneath the weight of the truth and she stumbles into the closest chair. He kneels before her, his hands clasping around hers while she tries to comprehend everything he’s told her.

Everything he’s confessed.

All of the lies, the secrets, the coincidences have all been for this.

This _crazy_ , suicidal, life-ruining plan to break his brother out of prison for a crime he supposedly didn’t commit.

_Tonight._

“Emma, you have to believe me, I never meant… I never wanted to involve you in this-”

“Well, you’ve done a pretty poor job of that.”

“I need- I’m _begging_ for your help.”

She shakes her head at him. “This is...this is _insane-_ ”

“If you just listen for a moment-”

In her agitation, she springs up from her seat to pace, to release some of the nervous energy that’s collecting beneath her breastbone and edging her towards a panic attack. The room suddenly feels too small, the air too heavy. “Killian, I would advise you, for your own good, to not say anything more.”

 

“Swan, you _know_ he’s innocent. I can see it in your eyes every time he comes up. He didn’t murder the Vice President’s son. He’s _innocent_. Please, you have to help me.”

“Do what you’re talking about and he won’t be.”

“But he’ll still be alive. He’ll be free. We both will.”

 _Free?_ How free can someone be when they’re constantly running from the law and worrying about the shadows over their shoulder? “You don’t get it, do you? I am _required_ to report everything you are telling me.”

“Aye, I know.”

“Then why would you?”

“Because you’re the only one whom I trust. The only one who can help...and because I know you want to be part of the solution-”

“You’re crazy. You are _insane_ , Killian! No one’s broken out of this place in years, it’s damn near impossible-”

“Not if you helped built it.”

“Excuse me?” Just when she thinks she can’t be anymore surprised.

“I know how to get out because I know how to keep everyone in. I designed the blueprints.” He pushes back the sleeve of his shirt then, revealing the tattoos covering his arm, then holds it out for her to examine. “There was too much to memorize, so I found another way.”

Her jaw falls open with her shocked gasp, her eyes going wide on the ink so carefully marked on his skin. She reaches out with a shaking hand, fingertips tracing lightly over the lines and pictures and texts that form the key only he can see -- her _brilliant_ structural engineer. She feels like she’s going to be sick, right here, all over him unless she can make it to the sink in the corner.

Emma blows out the breath from her lungs, an attempt at soothing the mounting distress in her body, and rests her hand against her forehead. A bird flutters by the window and her eyes reflexively fall to it as another memory tugs at her mind. It takes last bit of strength she has for her knees not to give out.

“This is where you’re breaking out of, isn’t it? This room?”

“There are alarm contacts on the glass surrounding the door,” he says quietly. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t ask this of you.”

“Oh my god,” she whispers, twin feelings of disbelief and betrayal slamming into her stomach the same moment another thought occurs to her. “ _Oh my god_.”

She thinks back to that day he’d charmed her, reciting a variation of her senior quote back to her. She thinks back to all of it, a rapid succession of memories flashing in her mind. He’d been staring out through the window, looking at the watchtower -- at their _freedom_ \-- plotting and planning and god knows what else.

“I know what you’re thinking, Emma-”

“Do you?” she snaps. “Please, enlighten me.”

“That first day, when we met- it started out- but it changed...I-” He huffs irritatedly, swearing as he stumbles over his words.

“You know for someone normally so good with words, that’s sure not coming in handy for you right now.”

“Emma-”

“Just say it, Killian. I was part of your plan. This whole time, I was just a pawn in your little scheme. You’re not- you’re not even diabetic, are you?” He doesn’t argue against it -- any of it -- and she moves her hand over her mouth, unable to keep from feeling the haunting press and retreat of his lips when they’d kissed. “Was _all_ of it an act?”

“At first? Aye. I needed to be here, for a number of reasons, but then...I _wanted_ to be here with you.”

“Right,” she scoffs, anger and hurt like little barbed knives twisting over and over in her gut.

“It’s the truth, Emma, you know it is. But whatever you may think -- of me and what I’ve done -- this is about _Liam_. Don’t make him pay for my mistakes.”

“Aiding and abetting is not part of the solution, _Killian_.”

“Neither is doing nothing! You’ve always been able to see through lies. I know you think he’s innocent, just like I know that you understand what I did to get into the penitentiary was-”

“How _dare_ you put this on me. I did what I could, I gave my Grandmother the information from Liam’s lawyers-”

“Wait, what?”

“You heard me. I tried to help.” It’s a confession she hadn’t intended on giving because it had been so fruitless.

“You did?”

“Yeah. But clearly it didn’t work,” she says sourly.

Killian is silent for a long time, studying her, looking equal parts surprised and grateful. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Emma. Truly. I appreciate it more than you could ever know.” He sighs then, contemplating the latest plot twist to the soap opera of their lives while he begins to pace. “But the people who are framing Liam? Let’s just say they have a higher security clearance than the Governor.”

Emma snorts at that. “So now it’s a _conspiracy_?”

“I didn’t come here to have a debate.”

“No, you came here to ask me to break the law.”

“No. I’m asking you to make a mistake, Emma. Not hurt anyone, not steal anything, just...forget. Leave the door unlocked when you go home tonight. That’s it.”

She stares at him, incredulous.

“Emma, _please_. Liam’s all I have left.”

She shakes her head, the disbelief over his deception bearing down on her heart and making it hard to breathe. It wasn’t true, not by miles. Liam wasn’t all that he had left, but he’d done a pretty damn good job of ensuring he was. She doesn’t have much else to say anymore, so she storms out and slams the door behind her, leaving him standing there while she feels his steadfast gaze on her back.

\-----------

To date, there have been three moments of complete clarity in Emma’s life. The first, she had watched her mother nurse a bird back to health from a broken wing, and at seven years old, had announced that she was going to be a doctor when she grew up. The second, had been when she’d walked through the doors of the infirmary her first day on the job as the attending physician. The third, well.

The third had been the moment after Killian had caught her when she fell the last few feet from the ceiling. Her entire world had been ripped apart at the seams and for those few precious seconds -- in his arms, their faces close and breaths mingling -- he’d stitched it all back together.

He’d stitched _her_ back together.

She leaves the door to the infirmary unlocked that night, after a few tumblers of rum and a lot of tears. Her life plunges into a chaos soon after -- an endless spiral of depression and hurt and unfathomable _guilt_ while the media diligently follows the escape of the ‘Fox River 8.’

(That’s what they’re calling them -- Killian, Liam and the other six men that had escaped alongside them.)

She loses her job, though that comes as no surprise to her. It had only been a matter of time before they figured out what her role was in the grand scheme of things. Plus, it wasn’t exactly a secret she had feelings for him. She’d done a pretty shoddy job of covering it up, despite her best effort.

There’s an attempt made on her life the following day, some unidentifiable man with cold, hard eyes holding a gun to her. She’d narrowly escaped but knew her safety wasn’t guaranteed. She was being hunted now, and the only thing she could do to ensure her survival was to go into hiding.

She thinks back to that day Killian had asked her to put everything on the line -- the day she didn’t believe him when he said Liam’s incarceration had been a conspiracy. A set-up. She wishes she could apologize to him, she owes him at least that.

He’s radio silent for months, though, as to be expected, and she lays low while some nameless, faceless threat continues to loom over her. But his absence is what really does a number on her. His absence only amplifies her emotions and she spirals deeper.

Betrayal.

Abandonment.

Guilt. Always guilt, no matter how right he had been.

\----------

They have a plan to make it right, she knows the minute she sees his and Liam’s faces on the television in her motel room on the outskirts of New Mexico. They plead their case to the world -- discussing the conspiracy, how Liam had been framed, why they’d escaped, and what they intended to do.

That’s not what has her attention though, it’s Killian -- her fingers tracing over the planes of his face on the screen -- and more importantly, it’s the little origami swan sitting behind him on the table, just past his right elbow.

It takes months, _months_ of agonizing uncertainty with only a fragile little paper bird to keep the hope burning in her heart, but finally, the events surrounding Liam’s wrongful indictment come to light. It’s a media frenzy and Emma’s never kept up with so much news in her life.

But it’s over. It’s finally over, and when it’s safe, she returns to Chicago.

She’s not sure what to expect coming home, there’s a lot of questions still left to be answered, a lot of healing, and not to mention two very angry, worried parents to deal with. It all fades away the minute she walks back into her condo, freezing in the doorway of the kitchen. On the counter, all alone, is an origami swan with six words scrawled onto the wing.

_It was real, Swan. It’s real._

She curls her fingers around it as it rests in her palm, holding the fist against her heart and allowing the tears pooling behind her eyes to slip onto her cheek. Later, she sets the swan beside the rose, tucked safely away in the drawer beside her bed.

On the last day of August, Liam and Killian receive full pardons for helping to uncover the truth and apprehend the real criminals.

\----------

It feels like any normal day when she returns to her apartment from the grocery store.

Until it isn’t.

Until bright blue eyes are staring back at her -- uncertain, frightened, achingly hopeful.

She wastes no more time, rushing across the living to close the distance between them, to throw herself bodily at him. His soft grunt upon their collision is swallowed by her mouth as she presses up onto her toes to kiss him.

And kiss him.

And kiss him. 

Her fingers loosen their grip on his shirt only fractionally when they break apart. His hand glides up her back, and smoothes around to cup her cheek in his palm.

“You kept it.” His voice is a whisper of awe and disbelief.

“What?” His other hand moves and she turns her head just in time to see him hold up the origami flower he’d folded for her so long ago. She smiles, eyes closing briefly when she feels him press a kiss to her temple. “Yeah, well, I only keep things I know are going to last.”

“You kept the swan too.”

“I did.”

“Sap.”

This time, it’s her laughter swallowed by his kiss.

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> My endless appreciation for everyone who has had their eyes on this and held my hand along the way. This never would have happened without your unwavering support: Sarah, Carrie, Erin, Jen, Ash -- I owe you all hugs and coffee <3


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